Sheila Heti Scrambles Her Life in 'Alphabetical Diaries'

I was about thirteen when I read my little sister’s diary. I barely had to flip two pages to see: “Ariella is a bitch!! I hope I never hit puberty.” I confronted her and was swiftly, justly punished for invading my sister’s privacy. It’s a story I’ve recounted dozens of times, always to poor reception; I’m not quite sure why I’ve chosen to commit it to writing. How can I justify reading another person’s private thoughts except to say that I’ve only ever kept a journal for it to be read. The “Reader beware!!” warning on the inside cover is just a performance, there to tempt the voyeur more than anything else. I asked my boyfriend if he ever feels a compulsion to flip through my diary. “Why would I?” he said. “You’ve already read to me everything in there.”